The Josh and Kat Trilogy: A Bundle of Books 1-3

by Lauren Rowe

“Okay,” Josh says emphatically. “I think she gets the point, Reed. I’m an idiot and a douche. Move on to the good stuff.”

  “But,” Reed continues. “Josh Faraday is the best friend a guy could ask for and one of the best humans you’ll ever meet.”

  “I’m not sure if I should kiss you or bitch slap you,” Josh says.

  Reed puckers and Josh laughs.

  Quickly, Josh, Reed, and Henn launch into another snarky conversation about something or other—but I’ve stopped listening to them. I’m suddenly too busy gazing at Josh and thinking about how cute he is when he laughs with his friends. I’m thinking about how beautiful his blue eyes are, especially set off by the blue jacket he’s wearing and in the flickering candlelight of this swanky restaurant. I’m remembering the vulnerable look on Josh’s face when I opened my door to him last night, and how he melted into my arms without saying a word besides, “Kat.” I’m wondering how a man can suffer so much heartbreak in his life—his mom’s murder, his dad’s suicide, his brother being institutionalized, his heart getting broken—and yet still manage to laugh and joke around with his friends the way he’s doing right now, like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

  I’m thinking all these thoughts and a whole lot more as I stare at Josh in the candlelight and hold his hand in mine.

  I lean my head against his muscled shoulder and take a sip of my drink with my free hand and let out a long, relaxed, happy exhale.

  Yes, I’m thinking a thousand thoughts right now—and all of them about Joshua William Faraday.

  The table erupts in laughter again at something Henn just said. But I’m not listening to the conversation. I turn my face and take a long whiff of Josh’s cologne, and my crotch tingles.

  At my movement, Josh kisses the side of my head, even as he’s still engaged in conversation with the table, and my heart skips a beat.

  Holy shit.

  I want him.

  And with each passing day, each passing minute, I seem to want Josh more and more. I want to take him home to meet my family and watch football on the couch and eat my mom’s famous chili and watch my brothers make fun of him relentlessly for one thing or another. I want to make love to him in my apartment, slowly, for hours, and then drift off to sleep, and not wonder whether he’ll be there when I wake up in the morning. I want to see where he lives in L.A. and sit in the passenger seat of his car, whether it’s a Lamborghini or Hyundai, while he drives me to his favorite bar—whether it’s a dive bar or some hot spot—and I don’t want any other woman—any other blonde—to sit in that seat besides me.

  I squeeze Josh’s hand and he squeezes back.

  But feeling this way about any man, especially the world’s most eligible bachelor—a playboy who dates supermodels and celebrities (and who, by the way, clearly has a pervy-streak a mile long)—sure seems like an extremely precarious thing to do.

  Fifty-Three

  Josh

  “Go, Henny! Go, Henny!” Kat chants, shaking her ass, and I laugh.

  As we make our way down the hallway to my room, Kat’s re-enacting the way Henn danced tonight on the dance floor at Reed’s club, and she’s doing an uncannily accurate impression.

  I join her in doing “The Henn” and she practically falls over, laughing.

  “Man, that white boy can dance,” she says.

  “Well, he thinks he can, anyway,” I say.

  “When it comes to dancing, isn’t that all that matters?” she counters.

  “No.” I laugh. “Not at all.”

  She laughs.

  “It’s Reed’s personal mission to get Henn to dance every time he sees him,” I say. “Reed says watching Henn dance is his own personal happy place.”

  “Well, yeah. Reed made that pretty clear,” Kat retorts. “‘Dance, puppet-boy, dance,’” she says, imitating what Reed said to Henn all night long. She giggles. “You three together are just like my brothers—I felt right at home. And Will sure fit right in with you guys as the fourth musketeer, didn’t he?”

  “Love that guy.”

  “He reminds me of my little brother Dax.”

  “I’d like to meet your brothers,” I say, and the minute I do, I want to stuff the words back into my mouth. Who just said that? Was that me? Dude. Saying you want to meet a girl’s family is not a casual thing. “Maybe some day,” I add.

  She bites her lip. “Sure. Some day.”

  We’ve arrived at my room. I swipe the key card and motion to her to enter first. Shit. My heart is racing. I’ve got to watch myself. Slow my shit down. It’s one thing to be feeling like this in Las Vegas, but her family’s in Seattle—in real life. Who knows what the future holds when we leave the bubble of this place?

  “Where should I put this?” she asks, holding up the duffel bag with her toothbrush and change of clothes we picked up from her room before coming to mine.

  “Well, in the bedroom, of course,” I say, grinning and she smiles broadly at me. I put her bag in my bedroom and come back out to the sitting area.

  “Something to drink, Party Girl?” I ask, moving to the bar.

  “Just water. I know I’m not living up to my nickname, but you’re absolutely killing me.”

  “Water it is,” I say, moving to the bar. “Your liver just sent you a thank you note.”

  “Gracias, señor.” She flops down on the couch in the sitting area. “So what were you and Will talking about on the way to Reed’s club—something about you helping Will’s dad with something?”

  “Oh, nothing major. I’m just gonna see if I can do Will’s dad a favor, make a few calls,” I say, grabbing water bottles from the minibar.

  “About what?”

  “It’s no big deal. He’s worried his dad is making some bad investments with a buddy—maybe even getting conned by someone he trusts. I’m gonna snoop around and see what I can find out for him.”

  “Wow. That’s nice of you. You seem to do a lot of favors for people,” she says.

  I push her blonde hair behind her shoulder. “Only for people I like a lot.” I bite her shoulder and she giggles in response.

  “Is that why Will got that ass-tattoo tonight—as payment for the favor you’re gonna do for his dad?”

  I laugh. “Hell no. He was just inspired by our deep and profound conversation at dinner to get the stupidest tattoo I’ve ever seen in my entire life, bar none.”

  She giggles again. “Why didn’t you join him? I thought Josh Faraday’s never seen a stupid tattoo he didn’t like. What happened to the barbed wire you were gonna get to complete your ‘social suicide’ trifecta?”

  “I chickened out. I guess even I’ve got my limits.” I shrug. “Or maybe I just wasn’t drunk enough.”

  “I swear I’ve never laughed so hard as when Will dropped his drawers right in front of all of us and got that ridiculous thing. He took the drunken tattoo to a whole new level tonight.”

  “Yeah, if getting a stupid tattoo is actually deep in a twisted sort of way, then 2Real is one incredibly profound motherfucker.” I chuckle. “I should sic Jonas on the guy and watch what happens.”

  Kat laughs. “I’m sure they’d totally hit it off.”

  “No, Jonas would quote Plato to Will all night long and poor Will would be like, ‘Um, can you bring back the dumb Faraday now? He was a lot more fun.’”

  “You’re not the dumb Faraday.”

  “Compared to Jonas, I sure as hell am. My brother is ridiculously brilliant—a whiz with numbers, amazing at solving puzzles, always thinking about something deep and meaningful, unlike me. And the boy’s got vision. My mom always called him magic.”

  Kat bites her lip. “You’re magic, too, Josh.”

  I blush. “Not like Jonas. Now, don’t get me started on what a complete and total dumbshit Jonas is about people and life in general,” I continue, “and especially about relationships—that’s a whole other story. The boy’s a fucking tool. But, man, Jonas—now there’s a magical beast of a dumbshit of a man.”

/>   She’s listening to me intently. Damn, she’s so fucking beautiful. I could sit and look at her all day, every day, and never get tired of her face. I put my fingertip over the slight cleft in her chin and she smiles shyly.

  “So enough about my idiot-genius brother,” I say softly. “Are you ever gonna tell me what you thought of my application? We haven’t been alone for two minutes since Henn woke us up and I’ve been dying to hear what you think.”

  She presses her lips together. “You wanna hear what I think, huh?”

  I nod, my stomach clenching.

  “Well, first off...” She looks up at the ceiling, apparently gathering her thoughts. “Well, first, let’s just get this out of the way: I don’t think you’re a sick fuck.” She smiles. “But if you are, then I don’t care.”

  I’m tingling all over. I thought she’d say that, based on the way she fell asleep in my arms after reading it last night, but it sure feels good to hear her say it out loud.

  “Well, okay, maybe you’re a teeny-tiny bit of a sick fuck,” she amends, “but I like that about you.”

  My cock stretches its arms and yawns inside my pants.

  “Secondly, I think that, whatever you did to those women in The Club for a month?” She levels me with her sparkling blue eyes. “I want you to do it to me, too—exactly the way you did it to them.”

  Oh shit. My cock just sat upright in bed and yelled, ‘Do I smell coffee?’”

  There’s a long beat as I process what she just said.

  She grins broadly. “I also think... as long as you’re gonna show me your fantasies, without holding back, then, maybe, if you’re willing... ” She takes a deep breath. “Maybe I could show you mine?” Again, she bites her lip. “Because I’m actually a bit of a sick fuck myself.”

  My cock is now doing jumping jacks on the floor next to its bed. “I’d love that,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “What are your fantasies? In your ‘application’, you mentioned a bodyguard fantasy and some sort of captive fantasy?”

  She nods. “Yeah. Actually, I think the captive fantasy might be pretty consistent with your saving-the-raped-girl fantasy. We might be able to do a two-for-one there.”

  I shift in my seat, trying to relieve the pressure on my cock. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll do it,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath. “Really? You want the whole thing?”

  I nod. “Of course. Tell me the whole damned thing.”

  She beams a smile at me that stops my heart. “Okay, well, um, let’s start with my captive fantasy.” She looks giddy. “Well, I’m held captive by a horribly dangerous man who captured me in order to make me his sex slave. But then, after taking me—sensuously, not violently, by the way—he winds up falling desperately in love with me—and then after a while another bad guy comes to kidnap me, also intending to make me his sex slave, of course, and my original captor fends him off in a sword fight—”

  “A sword fight?”

  “Yeah, my fantasy kind of toggles between present day and a kind of historical-fiction-locked-in-a-dungeon kind of thing.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Anyway, when the second bad guy is finally dead, my original captor unties me and says I can go, because now he cares about me too much to keep me as his prisoner. It’s like if you love something, set it free, you know? But I don’t want to go—in fact, all I want to do is stay and fuck him for hours and hours—so that’s what we do, only this time, without the bondage, because now it’s my choice to stay and that’s what makes it so sexy.”

  I’m in a daze listening to her, completely shocked.

  There’s a beat.

  I suddenly realize she’s not talking anymore.

  “So, that’s it,” she declares, filling the silence.

  “Wow,” I say. “That was quite a bit more... detailed than I was expecting.”

  She shrugs. “I fantasize in Technicolor—what can I say?”

  I laugh. “It’s like a mini-porno.”

  “Exactly. Yes. A mini-porno starring me.”

  “And you’ve got more of these mini-pornos bouncing around in your head?”

  “Tons.”

  “And who are the guys who play opposite you in these pornos?”

  “Well, depending on the mini-porno-fantasy, it could be any number of fantasy-guys—Channing Tatum gets cast a lot; Charlie Hunman makes appearances quite frequently; this hot married guy who works at the bank.” She blushes. “But that was all before I saw you standing in that hallway in your wet briefs. Lately, there’s only one star of all my imaginary-mini-pornos: Joshua William Faraday.”

  I smile and so does she.

  “So you think my captor-fantasy would work with your saving-the-girl fantasy?” she asks. “Or is it too weird to mix and match?”

  “I think that would work just fine.” I shift again. My cock is throbbing in my pants. “And what about the bodyguard fantasy? Is it pretty detailed, too?”

  She smiles from ear-to-ear, clearly excited by what she’s about to say. “Okay, so in this one, I’m a world-famous singer and my life is in serious danger because some stalker is after me. So a gorgeous bodyguard has been hired to protect me—a really serious, no-nonsense kind of guy, like a former Secret Service agent. And, one night, I’m performing a concert in a beautiful, sparkly outfit, like a kind of space-age-y-looking thing? Or maybe I’ve got a beautiful headscarf around my head and I’m looking really somber, sitting on a chair. It just depends what song I’m performing. But either way my bodyguard gets spooked by something he sees in the crowd and he rushes onstage and swoops me up to protect me from an assassin and he literally carries me away from harm, and even though we’re not supposed to do it—because my bodyguard’s a true professional and takes his job really seriously—we just can’t resist our off-the-charts attraction and we totally get it on.”

  There’s a long beat before I’m able to speak without laughing. “So you’re saying you’ve got a porno-version of The Bodyguard that plays inside your head?” I say evenly, trying my damnedest not to laugh.

  She makes a face. “You’re making fun of me? I’m telling you my deepest, darkest, hottest fantasies and you’re laughing at me?”

  I can’t contain myself anymore. I burst out laughing. “No, I’m not making fun of you, I swear. I’m sorry, babe. Continue. I’m loving this.”

  “I’ve seen The Bodyguard like twenty times, okay? And I’ve always wanted to be Whitney. Stop laughing at me.”

  I bite my lip, trying to stop laughing. “It sounds amazing. What else?”

  “Well, I’m not gonna tell you now.” She crosses her arms over her chest in a huff. “You’re supposed to be making me feel safe enough to disclose my innermost thoughts, Josh—you know, luring me into some kind of emotional intimacy—not making me feel like a complete weirdo.”

  I laugh. “I should have warned you—I suck at emotional intimacy.”

  “Obviously,” she says. But there’s a gleam in her eye.

  I touch her chin again. “I’m sorry, PG. Please forgive me. I’m a dick.”

  She pouts.

  “Tell me more, babe. Tell me every last thing that turns you on. I wanna know. Don’t hold back.”

  “No. You’re just gonna laugh at me.” She sticks out her lower lip.

  “Never. Well, okay, I might laugh. But that doesn’t mean anything. I laugh at everything. That’s just who I am. I love hearing your fantasies, I swear.”

  “I have a lot of ’em, you know,” she sniffs. “A lot.”

  “Are they all as elaborate as the ones you just told me about?”

  She considers. “Yeah, pretty much. I have an extremely active imagination.”

  “Come on, babe. Tell me everything. I might laugh, but only because I think you’re so fucking adorable.”

  “I’ll tell you if you answer one honesty-game question for me.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Why did Emma call you a sick fuck?”

&nbs
p; My stomach instantly clenches.

  “I don’t get it,” Kat continues. “Did you ask her to do something beyond what you wrote in your application? Because the stuff you wrote is kinky, sure, but not enough to make a girl call you names and run off with a guy wearing an ascot.”

  I exhale. “It’s complicated.”

  There’s a long beat.

  “What’s complicated about it?” she finally asks.

  “I’d really rather talk about you and your mini-pornos. I’ve totally moved on from Emma. I really have.”

  “But I want to understand. Just answer this and I won’t beat a dead horse, I promise. Did you ask her for something beyond what you wrote about in your application? Is there something else you fantasize about that you didn’t write about—something you haven’t told me yet? Because I want to know it all.”

  I shake my head. “What I put in my application is pretty much it. And it’s what I told her about—well, actually, just the savior thing. I never even told her about the threesome thing. I’d planned to tell her that, too, but once I’d told her about the bondage-savior fantasy, it became clear there was no point in telling her anything else.”

  She twists her mouth. “But why? I don’t understand. Was she really conservative or something? Was she a virgin?”

  I take a long time, figuring out what to say. I breathe deeply and finally decide there’s no way, other than to just say it. “Emma’s sexuality was complicated.” I exhale. “Everything about Emma was complicated, actually. She’d been brutally raped as a teenager and she was deeply traumatized by the experience.” My stomach is turning over. “Understandably. So she needed a lot of extra tenderness... I mean, sex was just really tricky for her because she was really... you know, like I said, traumatized. So... yeah.” I exhale. “I was always really patient and gentle with her and... we were together a really long time, and I wanted to try to help her, and then I just started to... you know... the reality was I started to have needs and she wasn’t meeting them. And I felt really guilty about that, considering what she’d been through... But she kept pushing me to be honest with her... accusing me of wanting more than she could give me... and when I finally decided to open up and tell her everything about my past, and my mother, and about my fantasies, and I finally told her what I wanted to try, just to see if maybe the experience would maybe somehow quiet the raging voices in my head. Well, that shit didn’t fly with her. In fact, nothing about me worked for her in the end. Nothing.” I run my hands through my hair. “I’ve thought about it a lot—why I was so attracted to her when we were obviously such a mismatch. Being with her was like banging my head into a brick wall, day after day. But I just wanted so badly to take care of her.” I pause, thinking. “I sometimes sit and think about why the fuck I get turned on by certain things other guys probably don’t. And when I analyze myself, I realize, yeah, I really am a sick fuck. I mean, getting off on the shit I do, when you think about what happened to my mom, it’s pretty demented.” I stop myself. My face is hot. I put my hands over my face, collecting myself. Fuck.